


Deep Into That Darkness Peering

by sleepingaway



Category: Pocket Monsters: Sword & Shield | Pokemon Sword & Shield Versions
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Body Horror, Eventual Smut, Existential Angst, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Horror, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:28:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25158496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepingaway/pseuds/sleepingaway
Summary: What do you do when you discover that your best friend is an eldritch monstrosity that has inspired countless myths and ancient folklore, who could easily tear you limb from limb or consume your entire existence whole? You double down, obviously.(An AU where everything is the same except Piers is the monster mash and you’re down to graveyard smash.)
Relationships: Nezu | Piers (Pokemon)/Reader
Comments: 13
Kudos: 56





	Deep Into That Darkness Peering

The first time you saw him, it was an accident.

You were tired. Your days seemed to become busier and busier, and recently, you slept very little, finding that with every waking morning, the bags under your eyes grew deeper and more pronounced. Your nerves were fraying, and your patience was wearing thin. Finally, at the precipice of burning out, something inside of you snapped. You decided to take a holiday, retreating to the seaside town of Spikemuth, where you would hopefully find solace among the neon-laden streets. Most people would raise their eyebrows at the prospect of spending a holiday in Spikemuth. After all, the town was somewhat run-down, notoriously underfunded and forgotten by the region’s more affluent citizens. However, beneath the massive structure overhanging the forgotten hamlet, was a treasure trove of beauty and inspiration, not only in its many historical structures, dilapidated as they were, but in the people that lived there. Spikemuth was a town that thrived on artistry, home to an impressive number of painters, sculptors, photographers, and, of course, musicians. _This_ was the aspect of the coastal town that drew you under its spell. You fully planned to spend the majority of your time looking at art, attending concerts, drinking heavily, and crashing on your best friend’s couch. And luckily, said best friend was none other than Piers, the town’s local celebrity, and resident expert in all things Spikemuth. 

One night, a few hours after passing out on Piers’ couch for the umpteenth time, you found yourself wide awake and painfully sober. After tossing and turning for another hour or two, you decided to give up on a full night’s sleep altogether, begrudgingly dragging yourself out from under your pile of blankets and retreating to the bathroom, where you proceeded to slide on a pair of well-worn sweatpants, and a hoodie with Piers’ band’s logo on the back (an outdated one, which the singer insisted on replacing for you at some point), topping it all off with a messy bun. Tip-toeing to the front door, you put on your sneakers, grabbed your phone and keys, and exited the flat, pulling on your hood when you realized just how cold it had gotten—and it would only get colder, where you were going. Walking along the main street, you breathed in the crisp seaside air, adjusting your eyes to the pulsating neon and trudging your way past a few bars and clubs where the town’s nightlife was still raging strong. You smiled as you noticed a few Sableye skitter around a corner into a nearby alley, clearly looking to cause some mischief to any overly-drunk party goers.

The town’s energy waned as you approached the east exit, the one leading to the sheer, black cliffs that descended to the rocky shoreline far below. You loved exploring them, especially at night, despite the potential dangers that lurked there. Luckily, you arrived when the tide was low, so there was no immediate risk of being swept out to sea or thrashed against the jagged rocks. You carefully made your way down one of the many damp, creaky wooden staircases to the main beach, the misty wind nipping at your skin, cold enough to bite, but not enough to cause a shiver. It invigorated your senses as you leaped down the remaining steps and onto the shore, almost stumbling in the process. The beaches of Spikemuth were not exactly the type you would want to picnic on—on top of being rather cold and windy, the floor was comprised entirely of uneven pebbles. However, it was still beautiful, in its own way, and in the past, you had spent countless hours watching the waves, collecting sea glass, and occasionally exploring the array of mysterious caves and tunnels that bore deep into the cliffside. They were only visible at low tide, and never failed to capture your imagination, particularly Mourner’s Cave, which was by far the largest of the bunch—you had yet to find its end, if it had one, in your own amateur spelunking. As with all the darkest, deepest, most unknown parts of nature, there were many folktales surrounding Mourner’s Cave. For centuries, locals regaled tourists with the harrowing tale of a siren, who would lure victims into the depths of the seaside cavern during low tide, in order to feast upon them. Of course, it was likely just a story parents would tell their children in order to keep them from straying too far beneath the cliffs, potentially getting lost, trapped, or worse. 

Standing at the very edge of the water, just inches from where the waves ebbed and flowed across the craggy shore, you stuffed your hands into your pockets, relaxing your gaze, allowing yourself to fully space out. The sky was mostly clear from where you stood, a large, full moon illuminating the icy waters, its luster reflecting off the thousand tiny, shimmering pebbles beneath your feet. In the distance, you could see a heavy fog rolling in, and there were no boats, as far as you could tell, so the horizon line was completely obscured by an inky, infinite haze. You stared, allowing your mind to wander, breathing in the briny scent and relishing in the isolation, when you heard something. It was faint—so faint that you barely noticed it above the crashing waves and the wind whistling through the jagged grottoes. At first, it sounded like a low humming, which you assumed was just your loss of hearing from the eardrum-shattering concerts you’d been attending. As you wandered further down the beach, in the direction of Mourner’s Cave, the humming grew louder, and you reached up to plug your left ear, then your right, seeing if you could isolate the damage. It wasn’t until after bending over, turning either ear towards the ground, and shaking your head up and down like you were trying to empty a piggybank, that you realized it was neither hearing damage nor vertigo. 

Your curiosity getting the best of you, you decided to follow the sound, fully expecting to come across some sort of wild Pokemon, or even nothing at all. The beach’s rocky structures had a tendency to “wail” in turbulent weather, creating an eerie, otherworldly effect and spooking hapless beachgoers who were unfamiliar with the area’s geology. Continuing your trek, you were led away from the tumbling waters and towards the sheer, ashen cliffside containing the entrance to Mourner’s Cave. As you drew closer, so did the sound, and you realized that it wasn’t humming at all, but singing—a strange, mournful, sort of singing, that made you stop in your tracks. It was unlike anything you had ever heard before—a swirling, ethereal sound with no discernible melody. It seemed human, uncannily so, but there was a sort of… wrongness about it, like it was almost synthetic—and there was a warbling to it, as if it was not one, but multiple voices, all stacked on top of each other, but clearly belonging to the same owner. You inched closer to the mouth of the cave, wanting to turn back, wanting to sprint back across the beach, up the wooden stairs, back to town, but your shoulders tensed, your stomach knotting in worry. What if this person, or Pokemon, or whatever it was, needed help? It almost sounded pained, or at the very least downright miserable, and something else—something that bothered you more—a sense of… familiarity. A unnerving, nostalgic sort of feeling that forced you to carry on, despite yourself.

Just as you decided to retreat, to call it a night, to run and hide under the covers and try to forget this ever happened, you passed through the mouth of Mourner’s Cave. Something in the air shifted, as if you broke an invisible barrier, and suddenly, there were no waves. There was no wind. Not even the sound of your footsteps, once shifting and trembling through the gravel, now plodding across solid, damp stone. There was only the singing. It filled your head, to the top your skull, pouring out of your ears—overshadowing any thoughts of fear, worry, or self-preservation, stripping you of any desire to leave, of returning to the world you once knew. Your eyes glazed over, shoulders relaxed, arms hanging at your sides as your legs moved of their own volition, though sluggish, as if moving against the tide. You no longer felt the cold, salty air against your flesh, instead feeling something heavy, oppressive, suffocating, weighing down on your shoulders. The air around you crackled with an unseen energy, prickling at your skin, making each hair on the back of your neck stand on end. The darkness ahead smelled like dry ice and ozone, but you didn’t care. You never cared. You could not remember caring about anything but the singing, of finding it, claiming it, lying in it, succumbing to it. 

The moonlight had long since abandoned you, as you journeyed further and further into the depths, where it could not follow. The encroaching darkness only served to heighten the sound as it bounced around the cavern walls, infinitely echoing in a beautiful, dreadful cacophony. A streak of warmth slid down your cheeks, though your eyes were unblinking, as you mindlessly accepted the fact that you were going to die. You did not feel afraid, so much as indifferent, and somewhat peaceful, like the darkness was an old friend, and you were always meant to become a part of it.

The singing stopped.

Blinking rapidly, your eyes stinging, you reached up to rub them, surprised to find that that they, along with your cheeks, were wet. Were you crying? Wait, where were you, anyway? You whipped your head around, squinting against the darkness. Why was is so dark, all of a sudden? You turned on your heels far too quickly, panic welling up in your chest as you slipped on something. You yelped, falling forward, managing to catch yourself before splitting your face open on the clammy stone floor. Wait, stone? Were you in a cave? Ignoring the fresh scrapes on your palms, you fumbled with your pockets before finally retrieving your phone, turning on its flashlight. You blinked against the harsh, cold light now illuminating the yawning chamber, seeing that, in your panic, you managed to slip on a slimy, stubborn patch of algae. Standing up on shaky knees, you tried to ignore the trembling in your hands and the thumping in your chest once you realized you had no clue which way you came in. If you weren’t careful, you would end up wandering deeper into the cliffs, and wouldn’t be able to escape before the tide rolled in. You tried not to think about what would happen then, deciding to stick to the path opposite of where you were facing when you snapped out of your stupor. As you walked, you got an idea, and looked down to your phone, unlocking it and turning on the camera to record some footage. You figured that if you didn’t manage to make it out in time, you could at least leave behind some evidence of your final moments, as morbid as that was. That, and, as you walked, you thought about the stories you’d heard of people losing time, of being in one place and suddenly waking up in another, often citing alien abduction as the cause. Maybe if you were recording your predicament, there would be a chance that someone could find out what really happened here, in the deepest, darkest depths of Mourner’s Cave. Maybe they would make a late night TV special about you. The thought made you laugh, though it was more of a sad, frantic giggle, and you were thankful nobody was around to hear it—or so you thought. 

Something shifted behind you, above you, dragging along the cave ceiling and knocking loose a few rogue stones, which tumbled down the rounded walls and skidded across the floor before bouncing off the back of your shoes. You spun around, bringing your flashlight with you, fully expecting to come face-to-face with a ravenous, wild Pokemon—inwardly cursing yourself for forgetting to bring any of your own. Instead, you were met with… darkness, but not the darkness you had come to expect from within a cave in the dead of night. No, that darkness was malleable, it had depth, it could be permeated. _This_ darkness looked… solid... quite literally the definition of pitch black, like someone had cut out a section of deep space and draped it across the cavern wall like some impossible curtain. Frankly, you had no idea what you were looking at, and a confused, fearful noise bubbled up in your chest and slipped past your lips.

Suddenly, the darkness jolted towards you, surrounding you completely and snuffing out your only source of light. You yelled, dropping your phone and throwing out your arms in a feeble attempt to defend yourself. Your body made contact with nothing, however, as the air grew thick around you, caking the inside of your lungs. The oppressive static returned, jogging your memory and overwhelming every one of your senses, your nerves screaming as your fingers and toes twitched. You felt yourself seizing, a deep weight in your chest forcing you backwards, and after stumbling, swearing, and babbling incoherently, you tripped over yourself, your tailbone slamming hard against the stone floor. Before you could register the pain, you suddenly realized that you could now see your legs stretched out in front of you, as well as the rest of your body. Though faint, there was undoubtably some sort of light coming somewhere from above, and after looking up, you realized you much preferred the darkness.

Hanging above you were eyes—so many eyes—staring accusingly down at your pitiful form, each of them glowing an electric magenta that made your retinas burn and your forehead pound. Next, you noticed the teeth—an obscene amount of teeth—razor sharp and emitting the same unnatural hue, stark against the pitch backdrop. Behind the sickening aura, you saw the faint outline of something sharp and skeletal, forcing you to look away, and thanks to your new, terrifying light source, you could now discern that the solid darkness enveloping your senses was, in fact, hundreds of black, amorphous tendrils, covering every inch of the cave, floor to ceiling, effectively trapping you. You had no chance of escape, entirely helpless, completely at the mercy of whatever creature made up this hellish cage. You were going to die. 

You wanted to scream, but felt as if your lungs were being squeezed inside your ribcage, so all you could do was sob—a pathetic, choked noise escaping your throat. You fell, your consciousness descending deep into an abyss from which you never expected to awake.

**Author's Note:**

> Eldritch Piers' look in this story is HEAVILY inspired by @VaudevilleRobot's version of him on twitter (lulzyrobot on tumblr)! So go give them some love!


End file.
